


decreasing the liminal space

by thosewhowant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn with Feelings, SO MUCH FLUFF, Simple Wedding, Smut, Wedding, isn't everything?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 08:18:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7707664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thosewhowant/pseuds/thosewhowant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Marriage is an archaic institution largely undertaken for financial reasons,” he says disdainfully. “It's not--I want <i>you</i>. You, with your godawful jumpers and a scar stretching across your shoulder, with a hot gun at the small of your back as we run across London during a downpour; you, writing up your inane blog posts-”</p><p>“Sherlock,” John warns.</p><p>“-your brilliant blog posts,” Sherlock amends seamlessly, “in your chair, in our home; you, in the bed that we share. You are <i>essential</i> to me, you must see that, you are my heart, the best of me and the worst are all wrapped up in who I am with you. And so you see, marriage is not sufficient--I want everything you are and simultaneously to let it all alone, so that I cannot taint it--but it’s… something.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	decreasing the liminal space

It happens during breakfast: John folds over the last page of the paper with a short exhale through his nose, slides it to his left, takes a sip of earl grey--and looks down to find two small black boxes in the space where newsprint had been a second before.

John stops, his RAMC mug suspended in mid-air. Blinks. “Sherlock,” he says, and his voice is even. 

Sherlock ceases typing on his laptop but doesn't look up from the screen. If John didn't know better he’d think his partner was completely at ease, but the closely held tension in his face can hardly be mistaken for nonchalance. 

“John,” Sherlock replies. There is no upward lilt to the word but John knows it to be a question regardless. 

“This,” John states eloquently, “this is-”

Now Sherlock looks up at him, eyes narrowed slightly but a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he says “You can put that cup back on the table now.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and places the tea on the table, turning his attention to the boxes. Reaching for the one on the right, Sherlock interrupts. “The other one.”

The clacking of the keys has resumed and he appears to be completely absorbed in the business of updating his blog, but still Sherlock knew which box John had been drawn to. “Couldn't deduce which one I'd open first?” John asks, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock huffs. “I did. You failed to comply.”

“Terribly sorry,” John says while reaching for the other box. He holds it for a moment, admiring the texture of the posh velvet box and the weight of it in his hand. He hesitates before he opens it.

Sherlock’s attention is fully on him now. It's a heady thing, and John wants to savor it so he looks directly at Sherlock, the box cradled in the palm of his hand. Sherlock looks ethereal--sharp features gilded in the pale morning light, dark curls a riot, a dark purple bruise peeking out from his collar, verdigris eyes almost glowing. He is casual in his worn tee and dressing gown in a way that Sherlock never, ever is with anyone else, and Sherlock’s lips are taut with tension despite his affected ease and John loves him. Loves him more than he thought he could love anyone; loves him enough to kill for him, to die for him, to have done both with no regret.

And John could say this--should, in fact--but he thinks that if he did they would collapse under the weight of it, an avalanche of joy and wonder that would nonetheless incapacitate the both of them and thoroughly ruin their reputation as emotionally constipated British blokes. 

Instead, he says “It’s been three years.” 

“Eight, actually,” Sherlock corrects him, and John has to stifle a smile.

“Since I've known I was going to spend the rest of my life with you?”

“Oh.” Sherlock, much to John’s delight, flushes slightly. “No--well--um.”

John grins at him, bright and unabashed, and Sherlock collects himself. “You're asking what’s changed.”

John is wondering, actually, combing through his memory for any particularly dramatic cases or near-death experiences. “I suppose,” he admits.

“Nothing.”

John arches an eyebrow, a look so effective that Sherlock automatically opens his mouth to explain before he has the words. “I mean,” he starts, and God, why is this so difficult? “Nothing changed. For the last three years, we've been,” he waves an arm, “this. And it hasn't changed.” 

Sherlock purses his lips, his frustration with the English language obvious, and John traces a calloused fingertip over the back of his hand. “Okay. And you… don't want it to?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says emphatically.

John laughs warmly. “God, we’re making a muddle of this, aren't we?”

“You're the writer,” Sherlock says to salvage his pride.

“Shut it, you,” John responds, with no heat behind the accusation. “Okay. So. You want us to get married?”

Sherlock makes a slight face at that, and John frowns in spite of himself. “What did I get wrong?”

“Marriage is an archaic institution largely undertaken for financial reasons,” he says disdainfully. “It's not--I want _you_. You, with your godawful jumpers and a scar stretching across your shoulder, with a hot gun at the small of your back as we run across London during a downpour; you, writing up your inane blog posts-”

“Sherlock,” John warns.

“-your brilliant blog posts,” Sherlock amends seamlessly, “in your chair, in our home; you, in the bed that we share. You are _essential_ to me, you must see that, you are my heart, the best of me and the worst are all wrapped up in who I am with you. And so you see, marriage is not sufficient--I want everything you are and simultaneously to let it all alone, so that I cannot taint it--but it’s… something.”

John stares at him for a moment, breathless. _There goes our reputation as emotionally repressed blokes_ is his first coherent thought, quickly followed by _but I don't give a flying fuck_. He once said that he wasn't good at this sort of thing, but looking at Sherlock’s impassioned visage, his impossible eyes holding John’s, it's the easiest thing in the world to say:

“Yes.”

The smile that slides across Sherlock’s face is devastating, a mixture of tremulous hope and incandescent happiness. John struggles to contain the tears that prickle behind his eyes; clears his throat. “Yes,” he repeats, for the pure joy of saying it.

Sherlock looks down at the table to ground himself, his lips fighting against a smile. John will have none of that.

“Stop it; I just said I'd spend the rest of my life with you--officially, even--you're allowed to smile.”

Sherlock nods, and John decides to raise the stakes. “Keep your chin tucked down like that and I won't be able to kiss you.”

Sherlock whips his head up so quickly that it's almost comical. He looks a bit lost in all of his happiness and still slightly wary, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it makes John’s heart ache when he realizes that this likely is the case. John reaches out and cards his fingers gently through Sherlock's curls before pushing a lock behind his ear tenderly.

“Actually,” Sherlock says, seeming to regain himself a bit, “you can only kiss me when I tilt my face down, if we are both standing.”

“Tall git,” John says fondly, stroking a thumb over his gorgeous cheekbones. “You mentioned our bed, earlier.”

“Yes,” he agrees.

“I, for one, would quite like to even out our height difference,” John breathes.

Sherlock gives him a tiny smile, still shy even after all this time. “But first-”

Sherlock pulls back and stands up, gracefully. John is less graceful, yanked off balance by Sherlock’s casual strength, but his protest is lost when Sherlock dips his head over John and brings their lips together slowly, softly. 

John’s complaints aside, he loves kissing a taller partner, loves everything about Sherlock’s utterly masculine body: his unconscious strength, the deep scent of his incense-and-sandalwood cologne, the way the hidden places of his body--behind an ear, the jut of a hipbone, the joint between the neck and shoulder--smell of sweat and musk and _Sherlock_ , and it is this intimate knowledge that he loves best.

Lips move against lips slowly, sensually, and John tilts his head up and loses himself in it. Sherlock’s hand is tight across his back and grips his hip; John’s grip in Sherlock’s curls is equally fervent. 

And suddenly John is being pushed, maneuvered up against a wall with Sherlock’s body forming a cage around him. 

“I thought,” Sherlock says, his deep baritone rumbling next to John’s ear, “that you wanted to be the taller of us.” He bends his neck and skims his nose behind John’s ear before beginning to suck a bruise into his neck.

“Oh,” John gasps before he can stop himself, and when Sherlock pauses to kiss his mouth he swears he can taste triumph on his tongue. Never mind that, he’d find a way to wipe that smug look off Sherlock’s face soon enough. “Height might be nice, but I'll remind you that I was a soldier.”

And with that he switches their positions so that Sherlock is up against the wall, lips claimed in a possessive kiss by John. Sherlock retaliates, catching John’s lower lip between his; John pushes him against the wall almost bruisingly, pressing their hips together.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, the sound clearly involuntary. 

Pulling back slightly, John grins at him with dark eyes. “Bedroom.”

They move to the bedroom in a chaotic maelstrom--hands grasping, shoes tied off and kicked aside, clothing removed haphazardly--until Sherlock finds himself sprawled on their rumpled bed. His tee shirt is, somehow, dangling off his left wrist but he doesn't care because John is pulling off his remaining sock and carefully undoing the ties of his pajama bottoms and suddenly they are skin to skin, John standing in the vee of Sherlock’s spread legs.

Time slows as John crawls onto the bed, their bed, and hovers over Sherlock. He skims his nose over Sherlock’s neck before pressing a gentle, chaste kiss onto the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath.

“It's okay, my love. I've got you,” John murmurs, a promise. As his reward, he sees Sherlock go pliant and lovely underneath him, his frenetic energy from moments before gone.

“John,” Sherlock says unsteadily.

“I've got you,” John repeats, because Sherlock needs to hear it again. “I love you.”

He reaches for John and wraps his arms around the small of John’s back so that John has no choice but lower the whole of his weight onto Sherlock. It's less than graceful, but Sherlock is clinging to him and burying his face in John’s neck and John doesn't mind, not a bit. 

They hold each other for a few moments, taking comfort in each other's soft exhalations, until Sherlock simultaneously turns his face to kiss John’s neck and arches his back. 

“Fuck,” John swears, his arousal surging once more. He can _feel_ Sherlock's smug expression but refuses to take the bait. Instead, he gently takes Sherlock’s wrists in one hand and stretches them above his head, slowly enough for Sherlock to object.

He does not.

“Oh,” he breathes out, and when John nudges his hands gently into the mattress and moves to run a careful thumb over his upper lip, he sighs and keeps his arms above his head.

John pauses to look at him. Spread out on the dove grey of their comforter, Sherlock glows alabaster in the soft morning light. He looks decadent, ethereal, god-like, and yet John can feel his warm skin against his and see a litany of scars fading silver into his skin and he knows that Sherlock is human. Human, and touchable, and _John's_ , somehow.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John, as though he knows exactly what he's thinking. Well, he's Sherlock; he likely does. "Come on, then," Sherlock says in a tone that is meant to sound imperious.

"Let me-" John breaks off to lean over and press his lips across the hard line of Sherlock's collarbone and descends downwards from there, and by the time he reaches his hipbones and slips off Sherlock's pants he has forgotten what he was going to say. Sherlock hasn't noticed, his lower lip caught between his teeth. 

"I-I need you," Sherlock says rawly, and it makes John's heart ache. It stretches beyond this moment in bed, beyond even the last three years and maybe even before they had met.

"You have me," John promises, whispering into his inner thigh, and Sherlock shudders. When John takes him into his mouth he cries out and bucks his hips up. He's close already but neither of them can bear to slow down, so John relaxes his throat and guides Sherlock's hand on top of his head. Sherlock moans as his fingers twist in John's short strands and tenses up. Humming around his cock, John tries to encourage him-- _that's it, let me take care of you, I love you_ \--and Sherlock cries out as he comes.

Catching his breath, Sherlock says, "Oh, God."

"Mm, not quite," John comments, and Sherlock starts to laugh: a slow, deep laugh that rumbles in his chest, and John can feel it when Sherlock reverses their positions and presses him into the mattress. "What," Sherlock whispers, "shall I do for you?"

John is aching, needs to come more than he ever has before, and so he frantically says "Your hand--just your hand," and Sherlock understands. Without further ado long fingers are wrapped around his cock and John groans. It's an embarrassingly short time before he climaxes.

He sinks back into the pillows contentedly and reaches for Sherlock--only to find that Sherlock is darting out of the room. "Oi," John yells, resigning himself to the eccentricities of his partner and the loss of a post-coital cuddle, but a moment later Sherlock reappears and clambers on top of John. John shakes his head bemusedly but lets Sherlock twine himself around him like a vine. 

"What's with the disappearing act?" John asks.

Sherlock picks up John's left hand and presses a soft kiss to the palm, then to the back side of his ring finger. Propping himself up on one elbow, a leg still wrapped around John's, he places the velvet box on John's chest. "Oh," John breathes out.

Removing his right hand from where it's carding languidly through Sherlock's mussed curls, John opens the box.

Inside is a simple silver ring, exactly what John would have chosen for himself. He picks it up and examine the simple engraving on the inside of the ring, and what he sees makes his breath catch in his throat:

 _For you, I am human_.

"You daft man," John tells him, tears prickling. "You've always been human, you're the only one who didn't realize."

Sherlock doesn't reply but takes the ring from John's fingers, a question in his eyes. John nods, and he slides the ring on. The weight of it is comforting, an unsubtle reminder that he is Sherlock's and Sherlock is his.

"Silver scratches more easily, I know," Sherlock says quietly. "But we are both worn and scarred, and I thought--if our rings change with us, maybe that's not such a bad thing."

John closes his eyes, trying to push down the emotion that threatens to burst out of him. "Where's yours?" he asks.

Sherlock takes the other box off the nightstand and passes it to John. His ring is similar, brushed silver that glimmers in the morning light, but there is a single row of tiny grey diamonds running vertically through the ring. "Lovely and unique," John comments. "It suits. May I?"

"Please," Sherlock murmurs, and John places the ring on his finger before bringing his hand to his mouth and kissing it. The ring is cool and unfamiliar against his lips, and John thrills to think that this will soon become familiar, known. 

They hold each other for several moments, unable to keep their eyes off of their rings, before Sherlock breaks the reverent silence. 

"Let's do it today."

John looks at him, thinks of all of the reasons that they should put it off, thinks that none of them are worth waiting even a moment longer. And then:

"Mummy and daddy," John says, beginning to giggle, and Sherlock blanches as he imagines his parents' reaction to missing his wedding. John looks entirely too happy, as though he's imagining the scolding in his head (Sherlock has no doubt that he is), and so decides to retaliate. "Harry," he says meaningfully, and John's giggling abruptly stops before turning into full-fledged laughter. 

"Oh god," John gasps, breathless from laughter, "they'll kill us."

"Gruesomely," Sherlock agrees. 

"Worth it, though."

"Absolutely."

"Shall we, then?"

"Oh god, yes."

"You have to call Mycroft," John says helpfully before collapsing into giggles once more. Sherlock glares at him, chin in the air, before sliding out of bed and grabbing his mobile from the living room. He gets back into bed and makes sure to press his cold feet against John, who squawks in protest.

The call concludes with less bickering than expected, and Sherlock turns to John. "He'll be here with the appropriate paperwork at eight this evening. Couldn't come earlier, apparently there's a 'crisis' somewhere."

"We'll need witnesses," John reminds him.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock decides immediately. "And... Graham?"

Rolling his eyes, John says, "You know his name, quit pretending that you don't. And that means Molly should come, as well."

"Given that they're married, I assumed as much," Sherlock says loftily. "It's a shame, though, I'd have liked to see how long it took him to figure it out."

John snorts. "Bit not good."

"Anyway, we've all day until Mycroft shows up with the paperwork," Sherlock says hopefully, "and nothing to do. Perhaps we should stay in bed?"

"Nope," he says, pushing the comforter off Sherlock and letting it puddle on the floor, "we are going downstairs to tell Mrs Hudson that we're getting married and would be delighted if she'd attend. And maybe, if we play our cards right, she'll bake us something."

Sherlock gets out of bed immediately and crosses over to his wardrobe. "In that case, no time to waste. Come on, John!"

\-----

At eight o'clock precisely, a knock on the door signals Mycroft's arrival. 

John and Sherlock lock eyes from across the room--John talking to Mrs Hudson, who is almost catatonic with happiness over the news, Sherlock discussing a new corpse with Molly--and silently battle over who gets to answer. Sherlock wins, as usual, and John excuses himself with a grumble.

He opens the door to Mycroft, mummy and daddy Holmes, and his sister.

 _Oh bloody hell_ , he thinks, and only years of military discipline keep him from swearing out loud. Mycroft smiles smugly, as though he heard it anyway.

"Hello," he says instead, and then, raising his voice slightly, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock appears at his side, his face slightly ashen. "Mummy," he says.

"Hello, dear," she says to John, enveloping him in a motherly hug before turning to Sherlock. "You were going to get married _without us_?"

"I--um--" Sherlock stammers, uncharacteristically lost for words. 

"Oh, you," Mummy sighs, long-suffering, before pulling Sherlock into a hug as well. "Not that I expected anything less, of course, thank goodness your brother let us know."

Sherlock glares daggers at Mycroft, still trapped in a hug, who smiles back superciliously. Really, it's the happiest he's ever seen him, John thinks before turning to face his own doom.

"Ta for the invite, Johnny," Harry says brightly.

"It was just going to be a small thing," John protests while glancing over at the Holmeses, who are pulling rather large floral arrangements out of shopping bags. He overhears, "And you didn't even give us enough time to stop by a florist! We had to clip our own flowers, so of course we chose the toxic ones, just for you," before blinking and deciding to disengage. "We were just going to sign the papers."

"And I wasn't going to be a witness?" Harry says, her bottom lip sticking out. 

John coughs before saying, rather feebly, "Invite must have gotten lost in the mail."

"Convincing, truly convincing," Harry chides. "You'll win a BAFTA for that one. But never mind, I'm just glad that you two are finally going through with it. I lost ten pounds on you, you know, I thought it'd be a done deal by the end of the first year. Of living together, I mean."

"Oh?" John says even more feebly, and it's a relief when Mrs Hudson engages Harry in conversation and allows him to escape. He retreats to the kitchen only to find Sherlock perched on the counter, looking as bad as John feels.

"We should have eloped," Sherlock moans. "Gone to Brighton. Paris. Vegas, even."

"Your brother would have figured it out anyway," John reminds him, ever practical. "Better your parents surprise us here than an Elvis-themed chapel in Vegas."

Sherlock gives a noncommittal grunt before shaking his head and smiling down at John. "It's worth it, you know. All of it."

Their eyes catch, and John feels like his heart is going to melt. "It is for me, too," he says softly.

Sherlock jumps down from the counter lithely and strides over to John before stopping a foot away, suddenly shy. John steps closer and reaches up to cup his face. "I love you," he murmurs.

"Love you too," Sherlock says, and suddenly they are kissing, fierce and claiming and--

"Ahem," comes a light cough from the door, and they break apart to find Sherlock's father in the doorway, watching them with a gentle smile.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, eyes twinkling, "but everything is set up."

Sherlock glances at John with a mischievous grin. "Got your breath back?" he asks innocently.

John laughs, joy expanding in his chest. "Ready when you are."

And hand in hand, they walk into the living room.

\-----

The living room is cozy and warm, lit by lamps and fairy lights strung randomly throughout. Everyone turns to face them as they walk in, bright-eyed and beaming, and everything is hushed until Sherlock says, "I thought we were just signing paperwork," and receives simultaneous frowns from his mother and Mrs Hudson.

"Do give me _something_ , Sherlock," his mother tuts. "In front of the fireplace with you."

"Photos," Sherlock says, "really?" 

"Yes," she says emphatically, and John rolls his eyes and drags him over to the mantel. The flower arrangements are perched on top of it, dramatic foxglove and delphinium mixed with poppies and anemone and larkspur. Sherlock looks radiant in front of them, sophisticated in his dark suit, and John has a small moment of insecurity about his dark blue jumper and general ordinariness before Sherlock grips his hand and draws him out of it. He squeezes it, a silent show of support, before turning to Mycroft. 

"We don't need vows," he announces, and Mycroft frowns.

"Are you certain?" 

John chuckles darkly. "I think the whole of the last eight years have been our vows. This is just--paperwork."

"We know who we are to each other," Sherlock says simply.

John looks up at him. "Yes," he says, and they hold each other's gaze until Greg coughs and offers, "Rings, then?"

Sherlock raises his left hand, the low light gleaming off the ring. "Already wearing it."

"For the love of God," Greg sighs, sounding terribly aggrieved, and John can't help it--he starts giggling.

"Papers are over here," Mycroft says, suppressing a slight smirk and laying his fountain pen on the table. Sherlock bounds over and signs the papers before offering them to John. He doesn't even hesitate before picking up the pen and signing his name. This was a formality, after all.

"And who are your two witnesses?" inquires Mycroft, perfectly aware of the chaos such a question would cause. 

"Oh, God," John mutters to Sherlock. "We'll never be officially married, at this rate."

"I can forge Lestrade's signature perfectly," Sherlock whispers back, watching as Harry wins the right to one of the spaces and signs her name triumphantly. "I'll make it happen."

John kicks his ankle. "No committing fraud on our marriage documents," he warns, and Sherlock sighs. 

"Fine," he agrees, and John smiles. 

Sherlock's father grins at them as he signs his name to the document and holds it up. "I now pronounce you--"

"Daddy, that's my job--" Mycroft protests.

"--husband and husband," he finishes grandly. "You may now kiss the groom."

John reaches up, cradles a hand around Sherlock's neck, and pulls him into a kiss that they only break moments later, to the whistling of their friends and family.

 _This man_ , John thinks as they pull apart slightly, noses still touching, _this incredible, impossible man is my husband, and we're going to spend the rest of our lives together_.

It's a rather wonderful thought.

The rest of the night is a lovely blur of honey cake and laughter and familial teasing and earl grey tea spiked with whiskey (Mycroft, to Sherlock's endless amusement, had forgotten to pick up the champagne Sherlock had requested), but what John will always remember is the moment when he and Sherlock are in bed late that night after everyone had gone home, when his phone vibrates on the nightstand.

"Hmph," Sherlock grumbles, curling contentedly into John's arms. "Turn it off."

"Just a second," John assures him. Checking the phone, he finds a text from Mrs Hudson.

 _It was lovely, dears. I'll send more over in the morning xx_.

Opening the attachment, he finds a picture from earlier that evening. He and Sherlock are standing close together in front of the fireplace hand in hand, so wrapped up in each other that neither had even noticed the photo being taken. The glow of the fairy lights illuminates their faces and, somehow, the rings on their fingers. It's beautifully composed--the mirror above the fireplace reflects the fleur de lis wallpaper, the fairy lights hang over their heads, and the flowers lend to the oddly romantic feel of the evening--and John privately doubts that Mrs Hudson did it intentionally, but it doesn't matter. 

They look really, truly, undeniably in love in the photograph.

John nudges Sherlock. "Look."

Sherlock turns his head and entwined his fingers with John's. "I love you," he says again.

"I love you too," John says, and presses Sherlock's fingers against his mouth in a kiss.

It might have been a formality--nothing more than paperwork, really--but John finds himself truly glad for it regardless.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I love comments and kudos if you feel so inclined<3


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